


Holes In Your Coffin

by Equalopportunityoggler



Series: Holes In Your Coffin [4]
Category: The Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Explicit Language, I don’t even know, LOTS of violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Pining, Profanity, This thing got away from me, Violence, no beta we die like men, so much pining, this is still all Nathan’s fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29950413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equalopportunityoggler/pseuds/Equalopportunityoggler
Summary: All the pieces are in place, and now long-laid plans are beginning to come to fruition. Someone has come to Chicago with big ambitions, ambitions that require the removal of Harry Dresden, Wizard. Now Harry must deal with a dangerous new drug on the streets, Morgan breathing down his back, demon attacks and more, all while trying to keep more than one secret under wraps.
Relationships: Bob the Skull/Harry Dresden, Hrothbert of Bainbridge/Harry Dresden
Series: Holes In Your Coffin [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124402
Kudos: 1





	1. The King is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> When I first started this fic, it was intended to be just a small ficlet because I wanted to re-write a single scene from book three of the Dresden Files book series with the tv!verse version of the characters inserted into it. Somehow (how? HOW!?) it turned into this monstrosity. In any case, this is the last and biggest part of the fic series. I’m currently on Chapter 11 and I have no idea how much more it’s going to end up being before I finish (and I haven’t even gotten to the scene I initially wanted to write yet!). Also, I know I’ve been tagging this as Bob/Harry for awhile now with little actual evidence of that, but that’s going to be changing from here on out. Get ready for all the mutual pining your poor heart can handle!
> 
> A couple other quick notes before we get started: First off, the title chapter comes from the song “King” by The Romanovs, from their album And the Moon was Hungry. Second, yes, this is all still Nathan’s fault.

**_Holes In Your Coffin, Part Four:_ **

**_Holes in Your Coffin_ **

Chapter 1: “The King is Dead” —

When Ellis left Nevers, France, the weather was warm and the sky was a beautiful clear blushing sunrise. She had lived in France for all of her adult life, having arrived just after leaving school when she was eighteen, and apprenticing herself to her then-mentor. Her mentor was dead now, of course, and had been for five years now. She had killed him herself. There had been no hate in her heart for him; he had taught her much (though not everything) she knew, and she would be grateful for his support and respectful of his abilities all her days. It had simply been time — time for her to move on, time for her to claim what she desired, and he had been in the way. It had been pure math, basic strategy.

When her mentor was dead, she claimed possession of his villa in Nevers and the use of all the artifacts, books, and servants he had acquired over the years. She had been quite comfortable there, quite content. But now it was time to move on again. There were things for her to accomplish, and obstacles to remove before her goals could be reached.

So she left Nevers on a beautiful rosy early morning, and arrived in Chicago to the sight of dreary gray skies and drizzling rain, and the looming threat of storm clouds not far off in the distance. And if she considered that a good omen, an omen of the destruction she would wrought on this city if need be, well then, no one would dare to call her out on this little superstition.

Out of the plane, and in the walkway leading from the Arrivals gate of O’Hare, Ellis rolled her shoulders and tilted her neck back and forth until the vertebrae gave a satisfying crackle and pop. Then she exited the airport, knowing that there would be a car waiting for her outside - which there was, driven by one Harold Marshall. He had already failed one assignment she had given him, and had been relegated to driver until she decided to feel better about him. To be fair, of course, at the time of his failure he had neither known who he was working for nor why he and his brother’s tasks were so important to her plans, so perhaps she could admit some fault in this situation as well. Not that she would ever voice such a thought aloud. It would not do to ever show regret or admit a mistake, no such visible weakness would be tolerated from herself nor any in her employ.

Harold drove her to a hotel, a well-appointed respectable one near downtown Chicago, but not one so high-end and expensive as to attract unnecessary attention. She intended to be comfortable, but not stupid. Soon, she would need to locate a suitable permanent residence to make her base of operations, though the real estate options had been less than promising so far. It might require some compromise on her part, to lower her standards somewhat, but needs must. She needed space and privacy for her work, and she needed it soon, for she had unfinished business to attend to.

Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say it had been her father’s unfinished business, but that was no matter. Her father was dead, and so the unfinished business had become hers now. Like so much had become hers over the years, and how so much more, everything in fact, would be hers before long.

*

When Harry jolted awake from his nightmare, he was seated at his desk — well, draped over the top of his desk, more like, he realized with a wince — with his cheek pressed to the papers strewn about the surface. When he lifted his head, a piece of paper lifted with him until he peeled it from his cheek with a sigh and put it down again. All the candles he had lit earlier in the evening had burned nearly down, and a glance at his watch told him it was four o’clock in the morning. He had been asleep maybe two hours. Not long, but plenty long enough for the nightmares to catch up with him again, apparently.

It felt like it had been years since he had slept without nightmares plaguing him every night. In reality it had been several months, but even that was becoming more than he cared to bear. Enough was enough. With a grunt, he heaved himself out of his chair and into his workshop. Bob, apparently, was still sound asleep in his skull upstairs in the loft bedroom. All the better, Harry decided, as Bob would probably try to stop him if the ghost caught wind of what he was doing. He never really understood how Bob’s senses worked when he was napping away in his skull, what he could or could not hear or see or sense. But he found himself moving slowly, softly, trying his best to be quiet as he worked so as not to arouse Bob from his sleep — or whatever ghostly version of sleep his spirit seemed to enjoy — and accidentally bring him down to the workshop to catch him.

Harry rolled his eyes at himself. What a ridiculous thing to worry about, he told himself, afraid Bob would catch him like Bob was still his stern teacher and Harry a rebellious fifteen-year-old boy playing with magic he wasn’t supposed to know yet.

Whether it was silly or not, he was careful anyway. He retrieved glass jars gently and rifled through books with slow careful fingers. He gathered his ingredients into neat piles and stacks on his work table, placing each item down with care so as not to bang them loudly on the table, or jostle anything as he moved. Finally, with everything ready before him, he constructed the potion he was after. He’d had to consult one of his older texts several times to make sure he remembered everything — this potion was more complex than he would have guessed — but when the final beaker of liquid flashed silvery-blue and then turned clear like water, he knew he had made it correctly. Without even pausing to consider, he gulped the whole thing down in one go, like chugging a beer.

Now, he wouldn’t need to worry about sleep.

There was a very simple, very easy spell to keep oneself awake and fight off sleep. It was effective, and perfectly serviceable under most circumstances. However, it was intended for short periods of alertness — such as when a wizard needed to stay awake for two or three days to perform a complicated and long-winded ritual, or (as in Harry’s case) when one needed to stay awake a couple days to binge-study for a high school final exam that one was not remotely prepared for. But that wasn’t the kind of thing Harry wanted now. A couple nights without sleep would do him little good in the long run — not when the nightmares had been relentless for months. No, what Harry needed was to simply banish the need for sleep entirely. At least for the time being.

The potion’s effects were not interminable, of course; they would wear off eventually. But Harry had given the potion quite a bit of extra OOMPH, and he wasn’t entirely sure how long it would last now. A few weeks, maybe?

Task completely, and now feeling perfectly rejuvenated and awake, Harry retired to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and read a book.

*

It had been two months since the attempted kidnapping of Scott Sharpe, and nearly five months since the death of Robert Blair. Paul Marshall had pleaded guilty to attempted kidnapping, as Harry sat in on the arraignment hearing with his dark eyes boring holes into the back of Paul Marshall’s skull. His brother, Harold, had unfortunately avoided being implicated in the crime, and Harry had nothing on him except some stalking, and so Harold was still free to do whatever his unknown boss wanted from him. And yet, two months had passed since that moment when Harry had told Murphy, darkly, that something big and bad was coming, and still there was no sign of trouble. It made Harry nervous. Very nervous.

So nervous that he had been leery of taking on any new jobs for fear of being distracted when the big, bad something finally decided to rear its ugly head. He had no doubt it was coming, he just had no idea when, or what form it would take when it did.

Yet despite all his foreboding, and all his attempts to mentally prepare himself, when it finally did come, he didn’t even recognize it for what it was until it was too late. By the time he got involved, Morgan had already decided he was guilty, as usual. At first, no one had even noticed that the homeless were going missing, first a couple, then five or six or seven, then a dozen. It was a young beat cop who finally started to notice the thinning of ranks in the regulars he saw sleeping in alleys or under overpasses or begging on street corners while on his rounds. When he reported the missing people to his superiors they scoffed and rolled their eyes. After all, didn’t the indigent often disappear? Come and go? Perhaps they had found shelter, or been rescued by family, or died somewhere of an overdose.

So the beat cop defied the order from his superiors to drop it, and took his concerns to the one person who might listen and care.

No, not Harry.

Murphy.

And Murphy, of course, brought it to Harry.

*

Murphy had never met, or even heard of the young cop Julio Marquez until he walked up to her one day in the bullpen. He was young, perhaps twenty-five, dark-complected, with his head ducked down and a file clutched to his uniformed chest. His uniform was clean and pressed, all the buttons and badges shining and bright. This was a young man who was proud of his position and his achievements — not, Murphy suspected, out of a sense of power and machismo, but rather out of a sense of idealism and optimism for the good he could do. And yet, as he approached her, with his head ducked down, he looked anxious and shy, clearly aware that he was doing something he shouldn’t.

“Lt. Murphy?” he asked, though by the way he had strode straight up to her, it was obvious he knew exactly who she was.

“Yes? What can I do for you, Officer…”

“Julio Marquez,” he replied, reaching one hand out to shake.

Murphy shook it, looking at him curiously. “What can I do for you, Officer Marquez?”

“I…” he paused and looked down at the file in his hands. “My Sergeant told me to drop it,” he explained. “But…”

“But you think it might be something important?” Murphy prompted.

“Yes, Ma’am. I patrol the area around Wabash Avenue and Lower Wacker… near the Triangle… And I’ve discovered that the homeless population there is being thinned out.”

“What do you mean ‘thinned out’?”

“They’re disappearing. And,” Marquez continued, clearly trying to forestall any objections, “my sergeant already suggested that it's just because the homeless disappear all the time — that they go to shelters, or go home, or die off, because that’s just what they do. But I know these people. I talk to these people, I know some of their names and most of their haunts and habits, and I’m telling you someone is making these people disappear. It’s not just one or two. It’s dozens, over the course of the last month or so.”

For half a second, Murphy wanted to argue with this young man, and tell him that his Sergeant was probably right. But then she looked him in the eye, really looked. And Julio Marquez was not only insistent, he was fiery, he was certain, he was rock-solid. And she found herself believing him. He had brought this to her for a reason — because she was the infamous Connie Murphy, who had been ridiculed and disciplined for not only believing in, but attempted to capture and prosecute, some of the most improbable (one might say ludicrous) things anyone had ever heard of. If she didn’t believe in this young man, no one ever would.

So she nodded, held out her hand for the file, and said, “All right then, Officer Marquez. I’ll see what I can do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "This is Gonna Hurt" by Sixx A.M.

**_Holes In Your Coffin, Part Four:_ **

**_Holes In Your Coffin_ **

Chapter 2: “this is a call to arms” —

One of the things Murphy could do, of course, was bring the problem to Harry. She wasn’t entirely sure when she had started to really trust him, when she had stopped assuming he was behind every random bizarre occurrence she came across, when she had begun to rely on him not just for his knowledge of the occult but also for his judgment and his willingness to have her back. But here she was, knocking on his (now always locked) door with a file full of people she didn’t even know for sure were missing, for a case she wasn’t even sure was really a case, and had no reason to believe was anything supernatural.

When she knocked on the glass front of the door, two heads swiveled to look at her through the glass. Harry and his friend, Bob, who was apparently visiting again. Murphy chewed on the inside of her cheek and considered. She didn’t trust this Bob character, though she couldn’t have pointed to any concrete reason why.

Perhaps it was because Harry had never mentioned him before in the four or five years she had been consulting with the wizard. Perhaps it was because of the way Bob carried himself - aloof and almost aristocratic in his bearing and the bland expression he wore on his face. Perhaps it was because of the way Harry looked at the man, fond and exasperated and (dare Murphy say it) enamored, in a way that spoke to a long intimacy and an almost-schoolgirl admiration. Perhaps it was because Bob had actively resisted Murphy’s attempts to get a last name out of him, or any kind of personal information whatsoever, beyond the fact that he was Harry’s friend. The man was just plain suspicious, Murphy thought, no matter how much Harry seemed to like and trust him.

When Harry stepped over to unlock the door for Murphy — carefully avoiding any verbal invitation to come inside, Murphy noted — Bob quietly slid down the hallway and out of view. Murphy crooked an eyebrow at that, but didn’t comment on it as she walked into the living room area, followed by Harry.

“What’s up, Murph?” Harry said brightly.

Murphy glanced up at Harry’s face. There was something just the slightest bit off about him. His grin was a little too wide. His eyes were a little too bright and glassy. Almost wild.

“You okay, Harry?” She asked.

“Yeah, sure! Why wouldn’t I be?”

She shrugged. No reason, really. Fine then. “I’ve got something... well, I’m not sure it’s something, but maybe...” She handed him in the file folder that Officer Marquez had given to her and then told Harry when Marquez had told her. While Murphy talked, Harry flipped through the papers in the file and nodded thoughtfully.

“So, any thoughts?” She asked when she finished.

Harry scowled down at the papers and then shook his head. “No, not yet. Like you said, it might be nothing. But let me put out a few feelers and see...”

“Okay, thanks. I’m going to do something looking around on my end too. Let me know if you come up with anything.”

“Sure thing, Murph!”

Murphy headed back toward the door and paused. “I see your friend Bob is visiting you again,” she said.

“What?” Harry asked, head whipping up, startled. He blinked, and finally seemed to register exactly what Murphy had said. “Oh... oh yeah.”

Murphy puzzled over his response for a moment and determined to file that away for later. “He’s been visiting a lot lately, hasn’t it?”

“I suppose...”

“How long have you known him, anyway?”

“Oh.... forever almost...” Harry said, a fond smile on his face.

“Uh-huh...”

Murphy wanted to press for more information, but had a feeling it would not be forthcoming and so resisted.

“Well, ok then...” she said instead, and Harry cheerfully waved her out the door.

*

Murphy had been gone maybe three hours, and he hadn’t even started doing anything to look into Murphy’s missing homeless case when he got a call that made his blood run cold. Mrs. Burbank called to tell him that Casey was missing again, and to ask for his advice.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore, Mr. Dresden,” she sighed softly into the phone. “I love him, and I want to help him. But if he doesn’t want my help, if he keeps leaving just as things are starting to get better again… should I just stop trying? Should I stop trying to save him from himself?” she asked.

And Harry had no easy answers. He had no answers at all, to be honest. “I… I don’t know, Mrs. Burbank.” He thought about what he might do if it was his family. Would he keep trying? Then he wondered what it would be like from Casey’s perspective — if Harry was destroying his own life like that, falling into a pit of drugs and sickness and despair, would he want someone to keep trying to save him? Even if he kept turning them away? Suddenly, he knew the answer. “Don’t give up, Mrs. Burbank. I have to believe that deep down Casey wants you to keep trying, or at least wants to know that you still love him enough to keep trying, even if he isn’t making it easy for you. You know what I mean?”

Mrs. Burbank sniffled over the phone. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

“Look, Mrs. Burbank, this is just my opinion so take it however you will, but: Don’t harm yourself. Don’t put yourself in danger or destroy your own health for his sake, but so long as it is still safe to do so:  _ don’t give up on him _ , okay?”

Another sniffle. “Okay,” she whispered.

“And I’ll see if I can find him, no charge.”

Bob would berate him about that later — the “no charge” comment. His financial situation was hardly secure enough to be doing pro bono work, especially since he didn’t even know yet if Murphy’s “maybe its a case, maybe it isn’t” thing was going to become a paying gig or not. But he just didn’t have it in him to charge Mrs. Burbank under the circumstances. And frankly, he was more than a little worried that Casey’s disappearance had coincided so neatly with the disappearances Murphy was investigating. Surely it was pure coincidence, and nothing at all to be concerned about. But then again, what if it was exactly as bad as Harry’s instincts told him it might be. When the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his blood ran cold, there was usually a very good reason for it, even if it wasn’t immediately obvious.

*

While Harry was busy on the phone with Mrs. Burbank, Bob was standing in a corner, arms crossed over his chest, pale silvery-blue eyes watching Harry with concern. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off about Harry. Something in his eyes and in the quick movements of his arms and hands that read as both exhausted and manic at the same time. He just didn’t know what was causing it or what to say about it, if indeed he should say anything at all. Harry had been like this for several days now. Bob scanned back through his memories, trying to pinpoint a beginning, a cause, but nothing came to mind. Though he did realize he hadn’t actually seen Harry sleep in three days, maybe even longer. Perhaps that was it? Perhaps it was insomnia. He nodded to himself. He would talk to Harry later about getting some real sleep tonight. Clearly, he needed it.

There was an odd tightness in his chest when he heard Harry say the words:  _ Don’t put yourself in danger or destroy your own health for his sake, but so long as it is still safe to do so: don’t give up on him... _

It was a shockingly sentimental and vulnerable thing to say, a feeling that came up out of Harry’s core. But it was also, frustratingly, advice Harry himself would never follow, Bob knew. Oh, he would never give up on someone he cared about (and sometimes even people he didn’t care about). The problem was that Harry was perfectly willing to throw himself into harm’s way for others at the drop of a pin, over and over and over again. Bob groaned low in his throat and ground his teeth. Frustrating, infuriating, stubborn, selfless, self-annihilating, compassionate, stupid man. 

The number of times Bob had been forced to watch, helpless, while Harry hurtled headlong into danger and death, was bordering on the preposterous by now. Unfortunately, Harry’s sense of duty and honor and selflessness was part of the reason Bob respected and loved him so damn much, ridiculous infuriating man though he was.

*

It was not an especially large house, at least not by Ellis’s standards having lived in a French Villa for the better part of twelve years. Just under four-thousand square-feet, five bedrooms that she had quickly converted into a variety of offices and labs. The aesthetics of the building were also greatly lacking, having quite bland, standard middle-class American architecture and little in the way of high-end amenities that Ellis was accustomed to, and would under most circumstances have absolutely demanded from any residence she bought. Still, it suited her needs, if not her tastes, for the moment. Its two most valuable attributes were the fact it was secluded on a large seven acre wooded lot nearly an hour outside the city proper, and it had a well-insulated, sound-proofed basement.

Ellis had been in Chicago all of five days by the time she had worked out where her father’s formulas had gone wrong. But it had required an entirely new approach to the problem, and almost a month of tinkering and rethinking — not to mention quite a lot of killing, though that had never unduly worried Ellis — before she finally perfected the formula. All that was left to do was test it on a small sampling of the population before she could start wide-scale production and distribution — for an exorbitant price, of course.

She felt particularly self-satisfied, and proud of the progress she had made in a fraction of the time her — frankly, inept, she must admit — father had spent on the project. As she stepped, calm and quiet and sure of her power, down the stairs to the basement, she allowed herself a small congratulatory smile and nod. At the bottom of the stairs was a heavy locked steel door she had installed only two days after taking possession of the property. She took her key — the only key she had permitted to be made for the lock — from the chain she wore around her neck, under her neatly pressed blouse, and unlocked the door and swung it open in one fluid motion. As she did, the sounds of screams and moans wafted out of the basement and across her face. She closed her eyes for just a half-second, barely more than a blink, and her lips quirked into a second smile. Yes, she thought, everything is proceeding exactly according to plan.

*

“Harry Dresden,” boomed a basso voice.

For once, Harry didn’t even jump or flinch at the sound of that voice at his back. He just heaved a sigh, and let his shoulders sag a little in sudden bone-deep exhaustion. Somehow, he just wasn’t surprised.

“Hello, Morgan,” he greeted, turning around to face the Warden.

Morgan towered over him, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned and imposing in his long brown coat, his sword unsheathed and in his hand, but not yet pointed directly at Harry (for once).

Harry sighed again. “What is it you think I’ve done this time?”

“There have been an increasing number of enormous explosions of black magic, deadly magic, emanating from the Chicago area. We cannot isolate the location of these events, nor their exact purpose, but it is obvious that someone is doing extremely powerful magic and that people are dying.”

“…and you think I’m doing any like that? From this place?” Harry gestured expressively around his small, seedy apartment.

“I do not know how, and I do not know to what end, but I know you are involved somehow,” Morgan accused in his deep, forbidding voice. “And I will not rest until I uncover whatever diabolical plan you are concocted…”

“Diabolical? Morgan, really? Who says shit like ‘diabolical plan’ nowadays?” Harry snorted. “Come on!”

“…and I will drag you before the White Council with my own two hands and see you brought to justice,” Morgan finished as if Harry had not interrupted.

Harry rolled his eyes. Murphy’s missing homeless, Casey Burbank running off again, and now this shit? It had been a long day and Harry suddenly just didn’t have the energy to care about Morgan’s constant paranoia anymore.

“You keep saying this, Morgan. And you keep finding out you’re wrong, and I’m innocent of whatever crime you’ve accused me of that week. And frankly, I’m tired of it. I don’t know anything about any black magic happenings, but if I hear anything I’ll let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have work to do. For actual paying customers. So… goodbye.”

And then Harry did something he had never done before. He turned his back on Morgan, longsword and all, and did not even glance up to see when the tall threatening man had left. It was one of the most satisfying things he had ever done. And all he could was laugh when Bob emerged from wherever he had been hiding to ask if everything was all right.

*

Alex had become a regular fixture at Harry’s apartment for the last month or so. She invited herself over essentially whenever she was bored, sometimes with food because she knew Harry’s finances were always a little (or a lot) tight, sometimes with a book she thought he might like, but always with wit, a desire for more magical knowledge, and a brilliant smile. Harry thoroughly enjoyed her company. He suspected she had perhaps the tiniest of crushes on him, but it didn’t seem anything serious or worrisome. She mostly came because she wanted to learn magic. Real magic.

“Wicca is a real religion,” she said often, “and it's something I truly believe in. But it can’t give me the kind of real, practical power that you have. I want that.”

So, from time to time, he taught her things. He had tried his best to temper her expectations with a hard truth. Not everyone had the ability, no matter how much knowledge they acquired on the subject. Harry firmly believed that, like any skill, magic could be taught. That study and practice and hard work could make up for a lack of talent here, just as it could in the pursuit of music or art, for example. All that being said, however, some basic spark of the gift, innate to the individual, must be present in order for any hard work to have an effect. He explained this as well as he could. And Alex said she understood, but she insisted on learning anyway.

“If I have no spark, there’s no harm in trying anyway,” she had said, “and the theoretical knowledge might still be worth having, even if I can’t put it to practice in any useful way.”

So he taught her things. In three weeks, they had covered basic wards, protective charms, a handful of invocations, and how to concoct simple potions using the eight standard necessities: an ingredient each to invoke the five senses, plus ingredients for mind and spirit, and finally a base liquid to combine them in. Harry discovered that he enjoyed teaching, or at least teaching Alex. She was smart and quick and attentive. She joked around a lot, but she listened (more than he had as a student with Bob, but he’d also been quite a bit young, in his defense). She proved again and again that she was grasping the theory, absorbing the knowledge, but every attempt to put any of it to practical use had, so far, proven fruitless.

Since that second visit from Alex, Bob had managed to stay out of the way and avoid being seen. He stayed in the workshop or in his skull, and for all Alex knew, Harry was alone in his apartment. Bob had simply been a friend come to visit, as he had been when Murphy had accidentally caught sight of him and forced an introduction. No one need ever know that Bob technically lived there, well… for certain flexible definitions of the word “live” anyway. Often Harry wondered if he shouldn’t contrive to find ways of talking about Bob more, to Alex or to Murphy or to anyone really. If he couldn’t, in fact, invite Bob out of hiding (so to speak) and let him interact with people, specifically non-magical people. The problem with that was, of course, how to explain him. A friend, sure. But when people started to notice that Bob did not shake hands, or eat, or even sit down? What then? He shook his head. No, it was all too complicated, bordering on the sordid. Best to keep that to himself.

“Hey, Harry,” Alex said, pulling Harry back from his thoughts of Bob, “what if I tried the invocation like this?” She lifted up the notepad she’d been scribbling in to point to a series of symbols she’d drawn.

“You trying to sprout horns and a tail?” he asked with an arched eyebrow at her work.

“Uh… no?” Alex squinted at her scribbling.

“Well, then…” Harry said smartly, and he turned his mind back to the task of teaching.


End file.
